little company was riding in. She nodded to the two serving-men near the prepared trestle as the tall candlesticks were being placed in position, then moved to the screen doors and took up her place at the top of the steps over the undercroft, leading to the hall.
Sir Gilbert Hoyland rode into the courtyard, dismounted and walked stiffly towards her. He was a shorter man than either her father or Peter had been, but formidable looking for all that. He was dark like most of the Hoylands, with craggy features roughened by the wind for he was a soldier and spent much of his time out of doors. He mounted the steps, briskly drawing off his mailed gloves.
‘They are bringing him on a horse litter.’ He bent to touch her hand and she nodded acknowledgement. He swallowed hard as if uncertain how to say more, then cleared his throat. ‘I wish I could have done something, but it was too late for a physician. He—he died very quickly. I think he felt little…’
‘So your man informed me.’ Clare’s voice was a little hoarse. ‘I—I have sent for the priest. All is prepared. The men will have to eat elsewhere than in the hall tonight. Later, we can arrange for them to bed down—’
‘I’ll see to all that,’ he agreed. ‘You’re a sensible wench, Clare, thank the Lord. I think,’ he added heavily, ‘that Peter did not always appreciate that.’
He turned from her to let his gaze dwell on the gathering in the yard below as men came in, some on foot, trailing pikes and bills. Most appeared to be whole, Clare noted, mechanically, though one was being supported by a companion and several were clutching oozing wounds on arms and lower limbs.
The older serving-women she could trust would be able to deal with these minor wounds and refer anything more serious to her later. She had herb lore from her mother and would be competent to deal with most problems. Anything that threatened life or the continued use of the sword arm, or became infected, might have to be left to an apothecary in Leicester she had used on occasions. Her duty now was to tend Peter’s body.
At last she saw the horse litter being drawn into the yard from the gatehouse arch and her lips trembled slightly. She could see the outline of the still form covered with a frieze cloak and supported on each side by two men on foot so that it did not slide from the hastily constructed litter of wattle, probably torn from some sheepfold.
Her attention passed briefly from the sombre sight to a pitiful group of prisoners, pushed unceremoniously along from the rear, prodded by the Hoyland men wielding daggers and broadswords. All were staggering, their garments mudstained; one who towered over the rest was walking proudly though obviously inconvenienced by a wound near the thigh, judging from his blood-drenched woolen hose.
He was the tallest man Clare had ever seen, and she was no small woman herself. He was no mere man-at-arms, that was clear, for he carried himself like a king and with a swagger to match. He stumbled and almost fell as a sudden prod from behind jerked him forward close to the litter bearing the dead man. Clare saw him right himself and stand, head high, staring back at the two on the steps.
He had bright hair, she thought, almost red gold. From this distance she could not discern his features clearly, but the very carriage of the head and the haughty movement to stand erect, despite his injury, and the fact that his hands were pinioned behind him, told her that he was used to admiration, probably from other men as well as women.
She drew her gaze from him and moved slightly forward as her brother’s body on the wattle hurdle was unhitched from the horse traces and two men moved into position to convey it towards the foot of the hall stair. They managed the awkward passage of stairs with difficulty and, shoulder high, conveyed their lord into the hall through the screen doors.
Clare moved quietly beside the litter while Sir Gilbert went ahead of her, to instruct the men as to the disposition of their burden. He gave thought briefly to his prisoners still waiting below.
‘Keep them all securely guarded in the stable,’ he snapped. ‘As to the red-headed fellow, I’ll have the hide of any man who allows him to escape.’
An elderly serving-maid and the frightened Bridget were waiting with the required water and cleaning cloths. Clare motioned away the two men-at-arms who were still hovering over her brother’s body. She looked down at him after she had drawn back the covering cloak. At this moment she could not be sure of her own feelings for Peter. There was grief, certainly, and a numbed awareness, an overwhelming pity for the loss of the satisfying life which had stretched before him.
He had had everything to live for, the promise of love and children, a fulfilled life managing the manor and estates. All this had been snatched from him by the dispatch of a single lethal arrow. She could see the broken-off haft still protruding from the gap between his breastplate and gorget. Dispassionately she thought, I shall need a man’s strong hand to help me withdraw that before I can begin to lay him out decently.
She could not dismiss the thought that he had deliberately sought this violence which had destroyed him and she shied from the thought that she had not truly loved him. Peter had not been an affectionate brother. Now he was gone and she could not begin yet to worry about what would happen to her now.
Her uncle moved closer to her side and placed a hand upon her arm. She was not sure if this was a clumsy attempt to comfort her, but she turned and acknowledged the gesture with a half-smile.
He said, abruptly, ‘Summon your steward and between us we’ll get him out of his armour and clothing before you start to prepare the body. Don’t concern yourself. I’ll deal with the arrow.’
She nodded and the older woman set down her basin of water and hastened off to fetch Master Clements, their steward. He came hastily, ushering in Father Crispin, who was clearly shocked and looked hurriedly around the hall for Clare to give him instructions.
Clare abandoned her brother to the care of her uncle and Master Clements and went to the elderly, frail priest. He listened, wide-eyed, while she explained what she knew of the raid, and nodded with lithe birdlike movements of his head when she told him their needs. Once the body had been laid out he would immediately say the prescribed prayers for the repose of Sir Peter’s soul and eventually make the necessary arrangements for burial in the church chancel.
She went about her task of washing and laying out her brother’s body with a calm sense of acceptance. She had dismissed Bridget, whose hands were shaking so badly that she had threatened to spill water over all of them. The older woman helped Clare and together, competently, they completed their work, dressing the still form in a clean linen shirt. Then Clare knelt beside her uncle as Father Crispin began to intone the offices for the dead.
Later she went to see that the work of caring for the wounded in the curtained-off section of the hall was proceeding smoothly and efficiently. She was satisfied; her mother had taught Clare herself and the women of the household well.
They had had ample opportunity to perfect their skills, Clare thought wearily, over the last years when they had needed to deal not only with the minor accidents which occurred about the manor but with the injured men who continually returned to them from the various skirmishes and battles brought about in this jockeying for power between the weak King Henry and his cousin the mighty Plantagenet Duke of York.
York was dead now but his son, Edward of March, would succeed him, backed by the powerful Neville lord, Richard Earl of Warwick, and the struggle would be continued with renewed hatred on both sides.
She was about to withdraw from the hall when her uncle signalled to her.
‘There is a special prisoner I would like you to tend personally, or, at least, see to it that he is fit to travel tomorrow or soon after. I intend to send him to Coventry to the King’s court there. I’ve no authority, more’s the pity, to deal with the fellow here.’
Clare looked at him curiously and he explained.
‘He’s Sir Humphrey Devane’s younger son, Robert. We took him prisoner after a bitter struggle, but his leg is injured. He could walk well enough but he was losing blood and I don’t want him to collapse on me before he reaches Coventry.’
‘You